


Dead Weight

by chanderson



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Angst, Drugs, Graphic Description, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-05-28 14:03:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15050738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chanderson/pseuds/chanderson
Summary: "If it weren’t for the shallow rise and fall of his chest, John would think Paul was dead."A smoky club. A handful of pills. One too many drinks. It escalates from there.





	Dead Weight

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know what this is. It's another one in John's POV. A little more dialogue heavy than some of my other stuff I think. 
> 
> TW: I do describe in some detail (not outrageous or too disgusting) getting sick. 
> 
> There a random girl I made up, but she's not really integral to the plot or anything, more of just a filler to add detail.
> 
> I don't have a specific year for this fic, but it is late 60s.
> 
> Hope y'all enjoy!

Paul invites John to the Bag O’ Nails for the night. John knows Paul’s throwing him a bone, giving the poor, sad John Lennon something to do other than sit around at home and get stoned alone. He’d been bitchy on the phone when Paul called him with the invite. The last thing he needs is Paul’s fucking pity.

To drive the point home, John shows up purposefully late. He’s already a little drunk. The walls of the club are bathed in a disorienting kaleidoscope of colors: soft royal blue, indigo, gold, and John blinks, carefully staring at the red carpet as he walks. The color reminds him of dried blood.

“Hello, Mr. Lennon,” the man behind the host stand says, his accent embarrassingly posh. John gives him a strained smile and nods. He squints and scans the room for Paul. Waiters weave through the crowd, balancing trays full of multi-colored drinks above their heads. A woman in towering heals saunters past John. His eyes are immediately drawn to the chunky stone necklace hanging low between her breasts. She smirks. John coughs and turns his attention back to the room. Someone is screeching out a Chuck Berry song up on the stage, and John has to carefully work his way through the mass of people dancing. Sweat starts to bead on his forehead. 

He finally spots Paul in the back corner, squished in the middle of one of the velvet booths. There’s a busty blonde bouncing on his lap, her head tipped back as she laughs. One of her arms is wrapped possessively around Paul’s neck. She runs a slender hand through his hair, and he laughs too, reaches around her to grab his drink. Beside him is that fucking Robert Fraser, looking boyishly handsome in a tailored pinstripe suit. He’s got one arm draped around Paul’s shoulders. John watches as he leans over and whispers something to Paul, lips grazing his ear. Keith Richards and Brian Jones of the Stones are there too, eyeing the birds in the room and lazily smoking cigarettes. 

John grinds his teeth together and stalks over to the booth. Keith and Brian notice him first.

“Hey, John! Good to see you,” Brian slurs. “Been a while.” Paul turns his head at the mention of John’s name and his face breaks out into a smile full of unadulterated joy. John’s stomach flutters. 

“Johnny,” Paul shouts. “Youmadeit!” He stumbles over the words, garbling them together so it sounds like one long word. 

“Yeah, I made it.” John awkwardly sits in one of the tightly upholstered, matching velvet chairs across from the booth. Even in the dim lighting, John can tell that something’s not quite right with Paul. His eyes are bloodshot and his skin has an unhealthy greenish-gray tint to it. John watches as he reaches for his glass and misses it completely, grasping at air. He laughs and lets his head loll to the side. The bird on his lap tips his chin toward her and plants a kiss on his cheek, leaving a perfect red lipstick stain. Paul doesn’t react, just lets his head drop back against the booth like a dead weight. 

“How’ve you been, John?” John shakes his head and turns to see Keith leaning forward, his drink sloshing dangerously in its glass. 

“Uh, alright. I’ve been alright.” John watches Paul clumsily attempt to light a cigarette out of the corner of his eye. “Hey, what’s Paul on?” Keith shrugs. 

“Dunno. Robert gave him some pills. I wasn’t really paying attention.” 

John glares at Robert. There’s a flutter of anxiety in his stomach when he hears Paul trying to talk. His voice is slurred beyond recognition now, like his tongue is suddenly too big for his mouth. John stands abruptly and reaches across the table for Paul’s arm, knocking an empty martini glass to the floor with a dull thud. 

“I’m taking him home.” Paul’s eyes look like two black holes, his pupils blown wide. He groans when John tugs on his arm. 

“Paul’s just starting to enjoy himself, isn’t that right Macca?” Robert smiles lazily, wide and cunning like the Cheshire cat, and affectionately ruffles Paul’s hair. The bird giggles and plants a twin kiss on Paul’s other cheek. Her tits are practically falling out of her gaudy, glittery gold dress. Her jawline is sharp and masculine. John wonders if that’s why Paul picked her up. She bats her eyes at John and motions for him with her finger. Her nails are long and lacquered. John can only imagine the kind of scratch marks they would leave. 

“Why don’t you join us?” she asks. Her voice is low and desultory. Despite himself, John feels his prick stir in his pants. 

“No, no, we should really go,” John says reluctantly. 

“Don’t be such a bore, Lennon,” Robert drawls. He looks around and waves his hand in the air. “Someone get this man a drink.” 

John shakes his head even as a drink is promptly pushed into his hand. It’s cold; the glass is already sweating with condensation. It feels good against his dry throat, goes down easily. A vodka soda, practically tasteless. 

“Come on big boy,” the girl purrs. “I bet you can give a girl a good time.” John chuckles nervously. He can give a girl a good time alright. Maybe if Paul wasn’t so fucked up they could have a threesome. The thought makes John flush. He manages to slide into the booth, presses himself right up against Paul’s side. Half his ass is hanging off the seat. He shifts uncomfortably. The bird lifts her legs and settles them in John’s lap. One of her heels stabs at the inside of his thigh.

Paul is mumbling incoherently, occasionally rolling his head side-to-side. The girl leans forward on Paul’s lap, leveraging herself to get closer to John. Her eyes are a startling gray, and she stares at him from under thick, false lashes. This close, he can smell her spicy perfume mixed with the warm, earthy smell of sweat.

“Do you know what Paul took?” he asks dumbly. She shrugs innocently and smooths her hand over Paul’s chest, stopping to play with the curly hairs peeking out from under his open-necked shirt. 

“I didn’t ask. Isn’t he a doll?” She kisses the corner of Paul’s mouth. Jealousy burns in John’s stomach, accompanied by a sick sense of arousal. He’s half hard. “I’m Clarissa by the way,” she simpers. John doubts that’s her real name.

He ignores her and shakes his head. “I need to take him home.” Drool’s running out the side of Paul’s mouth, and John itches to wipe it away for him. 

“But you just got here.” Clarissa pouts and picks John’s drink up off the table. “Drink some more, loosen up.” She places the drink in John’s hands. He obediently drinks. She’s high too, he belatedly realizes. 

“I should take him home,” John repeats. Robert snorts and starts rolling up a joint. No one seems to notice. A hazy cloud of smoke is already floating through the room, the heady smell of marijuana mixed with hints of sweet tobacco. 

Robert seals the joint with a swipe of his tongue and grins. Keith and Brian greedily lean forward in anticipation of their turn, but Robert tries to pass the joint to Paul first. Paul doesn’t respond. If it weren’t for the shallow rise and fall of his chest, John would think Paul was dead. 

An icy jolt of anxiety coils in John’s stomach, and he sets his glass down with a clatter. Clarissa raises her eyebrows and plucks the joint out of Robert’s tobacco-stained fingers, taking a few puffs for herself. The white rolling paper turns red from her lipstick. She passes it to John but he waves it away. “I’m taking Paul home.” He unsteadily slides out of his seat, lifting Clarissa’s legs off him. One of his legs is asleep and he staggers backward. Clarissa is pouting again. She kisses Paul full on the mouth now, and anger hits John like a whip. “Get off him,” he snaps. Her eyes fly open in fear.

She clumsily climbs off Paul’s lap, and John drags him out of the booth, grunting with the effort. Paul is practically dead weight in John’s arms. He groans and sluggishly blinks. 

“John?” 

“Yeah luv, I’m taking you to Cavendish. C’mon, lets go.” 

John helps Paul out of the club and shoves him into the car when John’s driver pulls up to the curb. 

He slumps over and lays in a heap in John’s lap. His mouth is shoved against John’s crotch. John’s pants grow damp with Paul’s warm breath. 

John’s fully hard by the time they pull up to Cavendish. Paul’s oblivious. 

John pushes past the group of girls gathered at Paul’s gate, gives them a pained smile as they look on in concern. Paul’s babbling nonsense as John helps him inside. They go straight to the bedroom and John starts undressing Paul, laying him out on the bed. Halfway through, Paul moans and gags, his body convulsing. A thin line of vomit trickles out the side of his mouth, and John instantly pulls him into a sitting position, starts maneuvering him to the bathroom as he retches. 

John has to hold Paul upright as he vomits, and John’s arm starts to ache with the effort. Half the time Paul doesn’t even make it into the toilet. John starts to cry. It’s overwhelming. Paul’s supposed to be the strong one in their relationship. Paul isn’t supposed to take random pills from his friends. Paul doesn’t _do_ that. John presses his face into the sweaty hair at the nape of Paul’s neck and stifles a sob.

When Paul finally finishes, John starts a cold shower. The front of Paul’s shirt is soaked in vomit, and John gingerly strips it off him.

They sit on the floor of the shower together. Paul curls into the fetal position with his head in John’s lap. John starts to cry again.

The water gets to be too cold. John wrangles Paul into bed, taking care to turn him on his side. Paul’s out like a light. He looks angelic lying there — thick lashes delicately resting against milky skin, full lips just barely parted. John kisses his forehead and goes to the bathroom. 

He sobs as he scrubs the bathroom clean. Maybe he’s more drunk than he thought. Maybe he’s just scared. 

Paul is the only constant in John’s life. He’s not allowed to fall down on the job. He’s not allowed to do stupid shit. He’s not allowed to go out and get himself _killed._

John’s sobs bounce off the walls, ringing out like guitar chords.

He never considered the possibility that Paul could leave him too. Uncle George, Julia, Stu, Brian — Paul would be yet another name on the long list of casualties. 

John crawls into bed and puts his ear right up against Paul’s mouth, listens to each soft exhale, relishes the warm puffs of air against his face. Paul’s breath is sour, but John doesn’t mind. He presses his nose into Paul’s neck and breathes in like he’s taking a hit. Paul’s better than any drug he’s ever tried. 

Paul sleeps all morning, and John patiently sits in bed beside him. He looks so peaceful that John can almost forget about last night. 

Except then Paul wakes up with a pounding headache and pulls a pillow over his head as he moans. John chuckles and soothingly rubs up and down Paul’s back. His skin is slick with a thin sheen of sweat. “Hey baby,” John whispers. “You want anything? I bet a good, strong cup of coffee would do you some good.”

Paul responds with an inarticulate groan that John interprets as a ‘yes.’ 

John hurries around the kitchen, setting up the coffee pot and pouring himself out a bowl of cornflakes. He balances the bowl in one hand and tends to the coffee with another, irritatedly pushing different buttons until he hears the machine rumbling and coffee starts dripping into the cup. He goes about making Paul some plain toast. It’s all startling domestic, and John feels a stab of guilt. He never does anything like this for Cynthia or Julian. 

John jumps when the toast pops up, and he splashes milk out of his bowl. He never has been the multitasking type.

He shoves the rest of his cornflakes in his mouth, wiping at the milk that dribbles down his chin, before grabbing the mug of coffee and dropping the hot toast onto a plate like he’s playing hot potato. “Fuck,” he mutters to himself as he takes a second to suck on his smarting finger. His tongue runs over the rough, burned patch and it stings. 

Feeling like a waiter, John balances the plate and mug as he walks carefully through the house, rolling his feet to avoid sloshing the coffee all over his hand. Nerves are coiling in his stomach. He imagines finding Paul dead, a deathly pale, unmoving corpse. He can taste his cornflakes in the back of his throat. 

But Paul’s still buried under a mound of pillows when John gets back. A wave of relief ripples through him so intensely that he nearly drops the food. “Hey Macca,” John hisses. “I’ve got you something to eat and drink. Sit up.” He carefully sets everything down on the bedside table and waits.

“Nooo,” Paul groans. John rolls his eyes and starts plucking the pillows off Paul’s head. 

“C’mon, baby, you’ll feel better once you get up. I worked really hard on making this toast for you. I’ve been slaving away all morning.”

Paul sits up with a great effort and scoffs. 

“You exaggerate.” He covers his eyes with his hand and moans. “I’m sorry but I don’t think I could eat anything right now. I feel _awful_. What happened last night?” 

“You mean you don’t remember?” John asks in surprise. Paul looks up and glares, his gloriously arched eyebrows furrowed. 

“I wouldn’t be asking if I remembered, now would I?” 

“Fair enough.” John hands Paul the coffee and climbs in bed beside him. “Robert Fraser gave you a bunch of pills while you were at the Bag O’ Nails. You were seriously out of it.”

“Fuck. Did I do anything embarrassing?” 

“No.” John stares at his lap and picks at the blanket for a few seconds. “You scared me though.” His voice is barely a whisper, just a soft exhale of shaky breath. 

“What? Why?” John’s completely silent. Tears are suddenly pushing at the backs of his eyes; his throat tightens. He doesn’t trust himself to speak. Paul makes a distressed sound and shakes John’s arm. “John, look at me. What’s wrong?” 

John reluctantly turns to Paul. His eyes are still horribly bloodshot; the dark bags underneath them make him look ill. John swallows the lump in his throat and lets out a nervous little giggle, turning his head to stare at the wall past Paul’s head. 

“You weren’t there, you know? It was almost like you were dead.” John shudders and wraps his arms around himself. “Your head kept rolling around and you were drooling. I thought you were gonna die.” John huffs out a strangled laugh that chokes off into a sob. “It was so fucking scary. You were throwing up all over the place and couldn’t walk. I had to drag you around and shove you into bed.” John rubs angrily at the tears rolling down his cheeks. “You were so fucking stupid to take a bunch of pills from _Groovy Bob._ How could you be so fucking irresponsible?” John turns and glares at Paul. “Don’t you care at all about the people in your life? Do you _want_ to die?” John’s voice rings out shockingly loud in the room, and Paul’s face contorts in pain. 

“I didn’t know,” he says helplessly. His long lashes are wet with tears. “I’m sorry. I was just having fun. I didn’t know.” His voice peters out and he looks at John with big, sad eyes. 

_Please forgive me_. John can read the words in the wounded expression on Paul’s face: the wobbling bottom lip, the downcast eyes. 

He’s so fucking gorgeous. Even on the brink of tears, covered in sweat, he still looks like an angel. 

John sighs and pulls Paul into a tight hug, burying his face in Paul’s neck. John kisses his warm skin and tastes salt. 

“I love you. Please don’t ever leave me.” 

“Never. I’d never leave you. We made a deal, remember? It’s always gonna be you and me, John and Paul.”

John flashes back to the memory:

Squeezed on Paul’s tiny bed in the Bambi Kino, curled up naked in each others arms. Pete was off fucking some bird. It was just them. John was shaking from too many prellies, nauseous from too much booze. Paul held him and sang, his voice sweet and low in John’s ear. John felt disgusting, hated the smell of their combined sweat and body odor. He started to cry, suddenly overwhelmed. He wanted to be home. He wanted Julia to wrap him up in a blanket and hold him against her chest, her fruity perfume sharp in his nose.

But Julia was gone. 

Paul kissed John’s cheek and wiped the tears away. 

“Don’t cry, Johnny,” he whispered. “I’m right here. You’re okay.” 

“Please don’t ever leave me,” John pleaded. “I can’t lose someone else.” 

“I’d never leave you. I promise.” 

“I promise I won’t leave you either.” 

Paul tensed up but didn’t say anything. Instead he pushed John’s hair out of his eyes and nodded.

“Okay. It’s a deal then.” 

John pressed his lips to Paul’s, a chaste kiss to seal the deal.

He blinks and he’s back in bed at Cavendish. Paul’s rubbing little circles into his lower back. John’s nose hurts where his glasses are smashed up against Paul’s neck. He sits up and shakes his head. 

Paul’s eyes look beautiful bathed in the buttery sunlight coming through the window. One second they’re green, then they’re golden brown. It’s mesmerizing. 

John clears his throat and kisses Paul gently. 

“John and Paul forever,” he says against Paul’s lips. Paul chuckles and kisses the corner of his mouth. 

“We’re gettin’ sappy in our old age, son,” Paul quips. John rolls his eyes. 

“It’s only because I love you so much.” 

A light blush blooms across Paul’s cheeks and he sheepishly ducks his head. 

“I love you too, Johnny.”

The next day, Yoko Ono calls. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hmmm drop a comment and lemme know what y'all thought abt this if you want. I don't 100% know how I feel about it tbh, but I liked the concept.


End file.
